Page 39 of Someone Like Me
I press my lips together, grunting. I don’t want to seem like a wimp in front of him, but this frickin’ hurts. I take a long, deep breath through my nose.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice right at my ear. That’s when I realize it’s Drew’s left hand cradling mine under the spray of the faucet, and that’s his right hand rubbing slow circles in the middle of my back.
I nod, not trusting my voice. It’s bound to come out a squeak — either from the pain or the sheer surprise that he’s touching me.
“Stay here,” he says, laying my hand on the divider between the two wells in Mrs. Vivian’s sink. “I’ll be right back.”
And then he’s gone, out the kitchen door, leaving me with the distinct loss of his touch. Oh, yeah, and a throbbing hand.
The kitchen door swings open a moment later, and Drew enters, bearing a spiny sprig of aloe vera. “Hang on a sec,” he says before tossing the broken succulent onto the counter beside me and leaving again.
I really hope he’s not bothering his grandmother. The burn hurts, but I’ll live. And I don’t want her to have to get up from her rest.
But when Drew returns, he’s alone, carrying a hard plastic first aid kit. He sets it down on the counter next to the aloe and grabs a clean dish towel from one of the cabinet drawers.
“Did you wake Mrs. Vivian?”
He makes a face I don’t recognize. “No. She’s sitting up in bed watchingEllen.”Then I swear I hear him murmur something that sounds likelittle manipulatorunder his breath. But I don’t get the chance to ask about it because he shuts off the water and when he starts patting my hand dry with the towel, my eyes nearly roll back in my head.
“Mother Kali,”I groan through gritted teeth.
His brows pinch together. “What’d you say?”
I shake my head tightly, bearing the last of his ministrations with the towel. “Kali,” I grunt, squeezing my eyes shut. “Hindu goddess.”
I hear a disbelieving chuckle. “Are you a Hindu?”
Opening my eyes, I find him watching me with naked curiosity as he rests my hand on the edge of the counter.
“No… At least no more than I am anything else.”
Drew turns to the first aid kit and snaps it open. “What does that mean?” he asks, rifling through its contents. He pulls out a tube of Aspercreme. I resist the urge to make a face.
Lidocaine. Well… just this once.
“Just that I don’t really believe in any one religion,” I say with a shrug. “But I also don’t believe in nothing. Most religions have aspects that intrigue me. Parts that I honor.”
He unscrews the cap to the ointment and squeezes a dab onto the tip of his right index finger. “So, you’re a cafeteria-style believer.”
I crack a smile. “Well,beliefis a strong word.”
With his left hand, Drew picks up the aloe frond and scrapes it with his thumb, opening the skin and revealing the shiny green gel within. He globs this onto the tip of his right middle finger, and then he takes both fingers and skates them — one coated in Aspercreme and the other in aloe — over the burn.
It stings and soothes at the same time, and I shake with the effort not to pull away.
“So what word would you use?” he asks, pulling me out of my fugue of pain.
“What?” I ask, blinking in confusion and searching his gray eyes for clarity. They are the exact color of a leaden winter sky. As I study him, a barely-there smile forms on his lips. At the same time, the searing in my hand cools by degrees.
“Instead ofbelief,what would you call it?” We are standing quite close, my injured hand resting on his broad palm. We are so close, I can smell his shaving soap. Fresh lumber and sundried cotton. He smells clean, natural.
Male.
I indulge in another inhale before getting a hold of myself. His question is an interesting one and deserves a thoughtful answer.
“Observance,” I say finally.
His eyes narrow in mock scrutiny as he nods almost imperceptibly. Drew’s mouth this close is a dangerous distraction.
